


Unspoken

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: F/M, Grief, Longing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mira is determined not to battle against the ghost of Spartacus' wife; but she finds herself falling in love with him, and can't help seeing the shadow of the woman that haunts Spartacus' eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cipherninethousand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cipherninethousand/gifts).



Mira promised herself she would not go to war with a memory, or fight a battle against a ghost. What she desired was not to replace, to reshape Spartacus’ heart to allow her to be the only one who fit inside; no, what she wanted was to look into his eyes and see more than the reflection of the woman he had lost. What she wanted was to kiss his mouth, to have him inside of her, and not hear the silent whisper of her name against her throat. 

_Sura..._

She never wanted to replace, but to remind. To remind him that there was more to life than vengeance and battle and blood. To remind him that if he could be strong enough to submit, he could find happiness somewhere other than the battlefield. For Spartacus, submission was an admittance of weakness, it was not allowing himself to be held, allowing himself to cleaned of blood and sand and old scars; it was admitting that he no longer possessed the strength to fight. 

He came to her, stinking of sweat and death, and he slipped between her thighs like he had been made for them. Mira couldn’t shake the feeling that he _had_ been. Spartacus kissed her throat, nudged his nose against her jaw, ran his hands over her body, cupped her breasts and hips. He liked to believe himself more animal than man, more beast than boy, but Mira knew the truth of it. Perhaps he had been born to be a leader, to be a gladiator, or a soldier, or the sun that blazed in the sky, or the champion that brought promise of vengeance and emancipation; but he had the hands of a man made far too gentle. Made by Gods who had seen more in him than vengeance and fury; who had seen more for him than a glorious death. 

“Our bed grows cold,” Mira said. 

She came to him each night, with the same words, a reminder that she waited for him. Spartacus was always leaned over a map with his fingers tracing fading lines of valleys and rivers. Mira knew by the heaviness of his shoulders and the drop of his head against his chest that he was pushing himself too hard. He would be no martyr upon cross, that much was true. He would die of something far more mundane if he didn’t get more rest and take more steps to protect himself. Spartacus led them against Rome, he would do no one any favors if he fell to exhaustion. 

“Return to it, and see it warmed,” Spartacus said. “I will be with you shortly.”

Mira stepped closer. She never knew if she should touch him or not, if he desired her hands on him, or if he only wanted to be left alone. Her fingers touched his shoulder, gently, before squeezing. Spartacus kept his eyes on the map spread out before him, and Mira gripped his chin and turned his face up. “How often I’ve heard that word,” Mira said. “‘Shortly’. And how often it has been a sweet balm to wounded heart. Yet it has been a sweet _lie_ , as well. A thin lie, and my patience follows after it.”

“Mira---”

“Come,” she said. “I want no argument.”

Surprisingly, Spartacus came. 

He had never begrudged her her simple wants and desires. He was dutiful enough in that regard. He fucked her, and kissed her, and traced the shape of her body with hands that had been made for more than killing and dismantling the Republic. But when she looked into his eyes, he seemed to be somewhere else. Spartacus had never been wholly present when they fucked, and it stood to reason his mind was occupied with any number of things; but Mira could see his wife there, casting mist and shadow over his eyes.

She held no anger towards Spartacus. What had happened to Sura had been horrific, and barbaric, and she would not impede his course simply because she loved him. He wanted Roman blood, and he would have it. Mira only wondered if he would ever have his _fill_ of it.

“ _I_ grow cold,” Mira whispered. “Like our bed, when you are from it. When you are from my arms I am without sun and warmth.”

Spartacus smiled. Mira would never tell him so, but his smile was the sweetest and most beautiful she had ever seen. He would shrug the remark away, as he flippantly threw aside all of her tender words, but it was the truth. It was not the smile he had worn on the sands, or the one he wore when they took up steel against Romans -- it was not predatory, or malicious, but curved his lips softly and shone in his eyes. Mira prayed to the Gods there would come a day where he would smile in such a way forever, and only for her.

His hand slipped between her thighs. “Then I will be as Apollo, bringing you the sun,” Spartacus murmured. 

“Spartacus,” Mira gasped. Her lips trembled with some truth she could never say. It burned in her throat and caught between the spaces of her ribs. If she’d the strength, she would have let the words come, but she had fallen on her sword before and her wounds still bled. He would have the truth from her, eventually, and it would be the beginning or the end of everything. It surprised her that she had become more skilled with blades and battle than her own heart and tongue. Spartacus had shaped her, intentionally or not, and she was only what revolution had made of her. 

“Spartacus,” Mira said again. Her hand closed around his wrist and she looked into his eyes. She was naked, and she knew it. There was nothing that could be done for it, and that frightened her. There was nothing she could do to keep her heart hidden from him. 

He kissed her, softly, letting his lips brush against her own before moving them to her cheek, to her brow, to her eyelids and nose. He kissed her like she was something precious; more than flesh and bone, more than the woman who warmed his bed. He, too, was naked, and there was nothing that could be done.

Difficult to stitch flesh over an opened, vulnerable heart. Even more difficult when the desire simply wasn’t there. He was exhausted, and as was she. Too exhausted to pretend she could not trace the shape of his face in her dreams; too exhausted to pretend he could not taste the sweetness of her mouth over blood and dirt.

“I know,” Spartacus whispered. 

What he knew, he never said.

But he kissed her again, and his fingers and tongue were inside of her, and Mira knew as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for witchmirror on tumblr!
> 
> This was a lot of fun, and a lot of stress, wow. I've watched the entire series a few times, and I still had a lot of trouble with the dialogue. So, yeah, if you notice that 95% of this is introspection... There's a reason for that.
> 
> Still, Spartacus and Mira are one of my favorite pairs from the show, so I did have a lot of fun with this. :)


End file.
